


To strength him for the morrow

by Philipa_Moss



Category: Arthurian Mythology
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-18
Updated: 2011-12-18
Packaged: 2017-10-27 12:25:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/295840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Philipa_Moss/pseuds/Philipa_Moss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In winter, the days were short.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To strength him for the morrow

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hellkitty](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellkitty/gifts).



In winter, the days were short. Gawain sat by the hearth and tried to eke out some measure of warmth, not to thaw his limbs, but to trick whatever part of his body governed strength into thinking that what it saw was the sun.

There were no tournaments in the winter months, and precious few quests. Visitors seldom rode from afar in search of aid, because those who would seek to interfere with them were just as cold and tired as everyone else. If Gawain was slower to his feet, not quite as nimble or as agile or as quick, there were not many who would notice. Agravaine and Gaheris would notice. Gareth would notice, of course, and worry. Kay might notice if he weren’t run off his feet. The king would notice with the concern of an uncle and the distraction of a ruler. Few others would. His mother might, but that was no comfort.

He could while away the winter in lethargy, keeping to his rooms and his furs and the drinks his squire would bring him. He could seek out fellowship in the Great Hall or companionship in bed and he could keep fit in the indoor practice hall and everything would be fine and come spring he would still be everyone’s friend and in fighting form.

Still, Gawain could not quite shake the feeling that one day Camelot would be under attack and that he would be unequal to the task of defending it. This thought more than any other woke him in the night.

“You’re being ridiculous,” Tor said. They were lugging pine logs into the Great Hall under instruction from the queen. “Some soothsayer told you that your strength would wax and wane with the sun and you’ve convinced yourself that it’s true. There’s no more truth in it than if I were to turn to you and say that I’m a jug of ale.” Tor stopped abruptly and turned. “I am a jug of ale.” He squeezed his eyes shut, opened them, feigned disappointment. “No, still me.”

Gawain shoved at his shoulder and then, together, they moved the logs into position. “It’s nothing like that,” said Gawain. “I can _feel_ it.”

“The sun’s at its height now,” Tor observed. Then, “Catch!” and he heaved a log at Gawain.

Gawain staggered under its weight, but quickly righted himself and moved the log into place. “You bastard,” he grinned.

Tor grinned back. “And I bet if I woke you in the middle of the night and did the same thing you’d have just as much strength. Come to think of it…”

“Don’t you dare. Don’t you fucking dare,” said Gawain, and shoved Tor away.

Later, “Has it always been like this?” Tor asked while they walked the ramparts. The sun was swinging low on the horizon, but for now Gawain felt fine. “I’ve known you since we both arrived here. Even then, was it like this?”

“I hadn’t spoken to the soothsayer yet,” said Gawain. “That happened on the way back from the Green Chapel.”

“Oh,” said Tor. “That second autumn, then.”

“Yes,” said Gawain. “Since then, yes.”

“But what did he say,” said Tor, “exactly? Did he curse you?”

Gawain stifled a fond laugh. Tor hated being confronted with his own concern, hated being confronted with anything that highlighted his soft places, and so Gawain tried to ignore his friend’s crinkled forehead and downward-turning mouth.

“It was meant to be an advantage,” said Gawain. “At my best, I’m twice as strong as everyone else. Those times I bested Lancelot were always at the day’s peak.”

Tor stopped. “Gawain, Lancelot had just come back from God knows where. He was a wreck. _Dinaden_ could have bested him.”

“No. Unkempt Lancelot is still Lancelot. He deserves respect, even like that.”

“Even when he’s lost his mind?” Tor muttered under his breath, but he did not press it further. He didn’t pretend to understand the friendship between Gawain and Lancelot; it didn’t fit into his rigid categories of sense and nonsense. Gawain knew, though, that the way of the world was miles away from Tor’s conception of it. There were things that could not be explained.

“Tor,” said Gawain, “why not believe in this, if you believe in curses.”

“But I don’t believe in curses,” said Tor moving easily forward, trailing his hand on the stone as he passed. They had walked like this often in their early days, before they were well known or well respected or even knighted. When they were still trying to prove themselves they would come up here and strategize.

Now, on the basis of the history, Gawain allowed himself a confidence. “But you’ve met my mother. You know what she’s capable of.”

“Your mother isn’t the one who has you sleeping through the winter,” said Tor. “All I know is that my mother was quiet, dutiful, and unhappy and as a result I see women like that everywhere.”

“I’ve tricked myself, then, have I?”

“Yes. I don’t believe in magic. I do think you can curse yourself.”

“I did this, then,” said Gawain flatly.

“Yes.”

“There’s a flaw in your logic,” said Gawain. “No one would choose to feel this way.”

“I didn’t say you had a choice,” Tor replied, but Gawain was already moving away down the ramparts to the stairs.

 

When darkness fell, Gawain retreated to his room. He dismissed his squire, stoked the fire himself, and propped the door open a sliver so that the sounds of lute music from the Great Hall could echo down the hallways and into his chambers. He pulled the fur from his bed and settled into it by the fire. He watched the fire until everything else in the room was a blur in the periphery. He stared so intently that the rap on the door escaped him entirely and it was not until a hand landed on his shoulder that he started from his reverie.

“Gawain,” said King Arthur. “Why are you not dining with us?”

“Your Majesty.” Gawain scrambled to his feet and executed a tiny bow.

“None of that,” said Arthur, settling in the chair opposite. “Sit. I need my answer.”

Gawain sat back down. Arthur was his uncle, after all, and only a few years older. It should be easy to make his excuses.

He looked across at Arthur, though, poised and concerned in the firelight and the words would not come. Not the ones he intended, at least. “I don’t have the strength,” he said.

“What do you mean you don’t have the strength?” asked the king gently. “You’re not wounded?”

“No,” said Gawain. “It’s winter. How would I have been wounded?”

Arthur shrugged. “I know you train year-round. I thought perhaps a mishap in the armory…”

“No,” said Gawain, “nothing like that.”

“And you’re not ill?” said Arthur and, unthinkably, reached across to feel Gawain’s forehead.

“Sir,” said Gawain, recoiling a little despite himself. “You are not my mother.”

“No, I’m not,” said Arthur calmly, but he removed his hand quickly. “Thank God.” He folded his hands and settled back. “I can wait,” he said. “Guinevere can do without me for a little longer.”

“No,” said Gawain. “Go back. Bring my apologies.”

“I don’t know what they are,” said Arthur. “You haven’t the strength? You can walk, can’t you?”

“Yes,” said Gawain.

“And you’re not drunk. You _can_ move forward at a reasonable pace?”

“Yes.”

“Then you have the strength.” He stood. “Rise.”

Gawain rose.

“Follow me,” said Arthur.

“I can’t.”

“What?” All of a sudden Arthur was a commanding presence, against whom Gawain could not imagine raising a single objection. And yet, and yet.

“I cannot, my liege.”

“Stop with that my liege shit,” said Arthur, “and for God’s sake tell me what’s wrong.”

“My strength waxes and wanes with the sun,” Gawain recited, as if by rote, as if in response to an order. “These days the sun is exceedingly rare.”

The fire crackled merrily along for a full minute. Arthur did not move, and neither did Gawain. Finally, Arthur spoke again. “What the soothsayer told you, yes, I remember.” He stopped, started again. “Your grandfather, Duke Gorlois. I never met him for…obvious reasons, but I do know that he would, from time to time, disappear from sight in the winter and your grandmother, my mother, the Lady Igraine, would rule in his stead.” Arthur sighed. “You shouldn’t be alone, Gawain. Even in as crowded a place as Camelot you are too much alone these days.”

“Sir?”

“It occurs to me that your only curse is family and has been for some time.”

Gawain gave a half smile. “I could say the same for you, Arthur.”

“Yes,” said Arthur. “Well,” and he was silent.

After a time, Gawain shifted on his feet. “I will not be very good company.”

“No one expects you to entertain us,” said Arthur. “Sir Dinaden and his minstrel friends have prepared a program, after which I believe Sir Lionel will delight us with poetry and Sir Caradoc with a jig.”

“Not simultaneously, I hope.”

“No,” said Arthur, lowering his voice. “To be honest, they will be difficult enough to take on individually.”

Gawain forced himself to smile, and found that it stuck easily enough.

Arthur laid a hand on his shoulder. “It’s just tonight, Gawain. You carried the logs in, after all. Why not see it through?”

“Yes, sir, of course.” They started for the door.

“And tomorrow I’ll see what Kay can do about moving you to another room. An Eastward-facing room, perhaps, with a larger fire.”

Arthur said it casually with his eyes fixed ahead of them, but Gawain got the feeling that he was choosing his words with care and that Gawain was very much on his mind.

“It is a temporary weakness,” ventured Gawain. “I still live to… That is, while I am alive I will do my utmost to keep Camelot safe.”

“I know you will,” said Arthur. He gripped Gawain’s arm. “I know my life is safe with you.”

And, together, they entered the Great Hall.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "Gawayne's Ghost" by Robert Buchanan.


End file.
